


The Tutor

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (kind of), Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Historical, Cinderella/Jane Eyre-esque, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Lord Dean Winchester, Lord Sam Winchester, M/M, POV Castiel, Peasant Anna, Seemingly unrequited love, peasant castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-31
Updated: 2015-04-27
Packaged: 2018-03-20 14:53:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3654495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel hears about it in town, and it’s something almost too good to be true if he succeeds: food and shelter for him and his sister, and after, hopefully enough money to leave their village and travel the world. But what happens when Castiel has second thoughts about leaving a certain young lord behind?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"You know him, out way past the village? The Lord Winchester’s looking for someone to tutor his younger brother," the baker’s apprentice confided. Castiel stood silently behind his sister, who was scribbling the cost of the bread and pastries on a slip of paper, crossing out the sums, then adding them up again.

Anna frowned as she glanced at a small, squashed loaf in the back. “How much for that one?”

The wheels in Castiel’s head were already turning, as the boy behind the counter held up three fingers. “Why would the Lord Winchester need a private instructor? I thought nobles went to boarding school.”

“Maybe he can’t afford the tuition,” Samandriel shrugged. “All I heard from Ash was that the lord’s brother—young, I hear—was preparing for university in a few years. He needs to learn all the fancy stuff—Latin, Greek, trigonometry—“

 _I know all of that,_ Castiel thought. Maybe not as well as, say, a _real_ private tutor, but before he had to drop out of school, his teachers were talking about him going to a university, if his father allowed it.

He _might_ have. His father was both a bookbinder and a bookseller, and often, his travels took him far and wide. Castiel used to sneak out rare tomes before his father packed them in the wagon and read them by candlelight. Anna joked that his head would swell up like a melon from all the books he read, but the only way to get her to sit still was to read her stories. She loved epics of swash-bucking sailors and murderous kings and damsels in high towers, and Castiel loved them too. But sometimes, if he didn’t like the way how it ended or how the characters acted, Castiel would make up something new and tell that to his sister instead. His sister was none the wiser, but recently, she started teasing him:  _You can write something, Father can sell it, and you’ll be rich. Rich enough to travel the world!_

His sister had always dreamed of leaving the village, and Castiel had thought about it long enough for it to take hold, but it ended when his father didn’t return from one of his journeys.

He and Anna were first annoyed, then worried, then scared. Castiel tried to get work to support them both, but the town was small and apprenticeships were only for family. The only thing he relied on was occasional work of sweeping up shops and loading heavy things, and when harvest time came, he could work on a farm. But there was Anna…

Zachariah couldn’t stand children, so Castiel didn’t understand why he kept suggesting that he take them in. Anna had heard from town gossip that Zachariah used to be in the military until he'd left— _forced out, most likely_ —and became part of the village council. He still had his medals stacked and shined, hanging from nails, along with his old uniform, pressed and preserved under glass.

“He wants free labor, that’s all,” Ash, the blacksmith's apprentice, had concluded to Castiel one day on his way to the market. “Ever since his last servants bailed, he can’t get another set. I suppose you two…”

“I won’t let my sister and I become slaves,” Castiel had said. He saw the way Zachariah treated the village, as if they were fleas that could be squashed between two fingers; the way he rode through town on his old warhorse and expected everyone to move out of the way; and the way he left the shops without paying for his goods, not even giving them a glance backwards.

For now, they lived off the goodwill of their neighbors and bribes from Zachariah, such as picnic baskets full of bread and ribbons for Anna’s hair. He and Anna ran the house and cleaned up and cooked meals and tried to think of ways to leave. But Castiel couldn’t get a trade, nor could he become a teacher; he hadn’t even finished school.

He _had_ to get this position. Once Zachariah had found out, he'd thrown his latest “gift” right on the ground at his feet. "You ungrateful little wretch!" he'd snarled. "After everything I've done for your family! If you leave this village, I’ll make sure you and your sister never can come back!”

"When my father returns, he'd make you sorry," Castiel threatened, knowing the words were as meaningless as a horse to a fish. 

Zachariah knew that, throwing his head back in unabashed laughter. "You mean _if_ your crazy, deadbeat father returns. Who knows if he'll return from the border, with Lucifer’s army scavenging the land?" 

He'd slammed the door in Castiel's face, and with hands shaking and face flushed with anger, Castiel immediately turned away, told his sister not to wait up for him, and made for the main road. The finality of it all made his steps as wobbly as a newborn colt's, but he had to keep going. 

Castiel refused to consider what would happen if he didn't receive the position. Samandriel had said wonderful things— _free living quarters, meals provided_ , and _good pay_ —and Castiel hoped with all his heart this lord was generous enough to hire a boy just old enough for an apprenticeship, to give him and his sister shelter and food, and to allow them both to leave once his brother was ready to leave.

He finally reached the house described to him in the bakery, beyond the outskirts of town. Raising his fist, he knocked on the door. 

He'd pictured Lord Winchester as a refined, yet muscular-looking man with a scruffy beard, but the young man who answered the door didn't fit his mental description at all. He looked around Castiel's age, scruff-less with honey-brown hair. Castiel thought at first that he might be a servant, but one look at his clothes immediately rejected that theory. They were made with higher-quality fabric than Castiel's own threadbare tunic and painstakingly tailored to run down the exact length of his limbs. They weren't brightly-dyed or studded with shining belts or buttons, but the green of the lord's eyes, like new spring grass, seemed to make up for the lack of color on his wardrobe. 

"You look a bit young to be a tutor," he commented.

"Well, you look a bit young to be head of the household," Castiel retorted, then frantically snapped his mouth shut. What had he done? Had he ruined all his chances before he'd even started?

Lord Winchester only laughed. "Fair enough." He stepped aside, gesturing for Castiel to enter. "I'll make you some tea, if you wish, and there are some muffins from breakfast on the counter."

Under normal circumstances, especially if he'd walked nearly an hour, Castiel wouldn't have refused, but it seemed wrong, somehow, to take anything from a lord. He knew little about the nobility in general, only from books, and wasn't sure if this was a test or not. "Oh, no, I—" 

His stomach grumbled, loud enough to be heard throughout the house. 

Lord Winchester smirked, but it wasn't a sneer that twisted his whole face, like Zachariah's. "Are you sure about that?"  

"Maybe just a muffin," Castiel conceded, taking one. Maybe the law of hospitality would work for him. He'd been served under this roof, and Lord Winchester—well, he technically couldn't _harm_ him, but he _could_ kick him out if he so wished. Hoping for some distraction, he glanced over at one of the portraits on the wall. There was a younger Dean, standing beside what Castiel assumed to be his father. A heavy hand clasped Dean's lithe shoulder, and the other was wound around a woman's waist. She was fair-haired and green-eyed, the resemblance to Dean quite clear. In her arms, she held a small bundle, looking down at it with a tender smile. 

"The late Lady Winchester." The young lord's voice startled Castiel, making him nearly drop his muffin. "She passed away when I was four."

Castiel bowed his head. "I'm sorry." 

"Wasn't your fault." The other man sighed, and coughed once, obviously trying to stifle a warble in his throat. "I just...I've been raising Sammy ever since, and my father left to fight in the war, so—" He gestured around the large, empty house. "I've been trying to make do with whatever we got."

Castiel nodded, looking around again. Zachariah would have frowned at the sprinkling of dust on the windowsills and the muddy boots by the door, but the room itself still was finer than Castiel'd seen in his life. The house was clearly old, but well-loved, and the details—like the rich fabrics draped over chairs and the size of the wood-paneled room—made it clear that this used to be a very fine house, fit for a noble family. It was clean and pleasant enough, but something in the house seemed somber, as if it'd recently been acquired for a funeral. 

The man gestured for Castiel to sit, and Castiel did, taking a chair near one of the windows with almost absurdly long curtains. They were wine-dark red, heavy things, and most of it sprawled across the floor like a lazy child. The young lord sat on the couch across from Castiel, leaning forward, gaze suddenly serious.

“So. Why do you want this job?”

Castiel thought a minute before speaking: “I may seem very young, compared to the other tutors you might have seen, but you’ll find, hopefully, that I’m well accomplished. I can teach your brother Latin, Greek, trigonometry, philosophy, poetry, anything—and I’m a hard worker. I might not be as experienced, but I will never give up.” Was that wrong to admit that he wasn’t the best? It was too late now, and there was no use pretending he was someone he was not. “I’ve always been fond of studying, my lord, and if not for my…unfortunate circumstances, I could have gone to university. But my sister and I—“

“Unfortunate circumstances?” the other man interrupted.

“My father…left. I think—“ _He might be dead._ “I don’t know if he’ll come back.”

The lord’s expression softened. “I know how that must feel.” He looked away, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. Your sister?”

“I’m raising her on my own, and I’m afraid—“ His stomach clenched. This was the deal breaker. “if you accept me into your home, you have to do the same for Anna.”

“Anna?”

“My sister,” Castiel said, somewhat impatiently. He flushed dark red at his biting tone, trying to gentle his next words, but it all came out, sounding frantic and fraught with anxiety: “My apologies, but we have nowhere else to go, and she—I think she might be the same age as your brother. They could learn from each other—that is, if you want—and Anna is mature for her age.” Castiel tried again to come back to the question that was asked of him previously: “I will keep her out of trouble, and I swear, my lord, I can tutor your brother with the best of my ability. All I ask is for your hospitality.”

The young lord took a deep breath. “Well—“

“Do it, Dean! Please!” A young boy scampered from right behind the curtain, floppy-haired and doe-eyed. The shoulder of his tunic was clean off, and he was bare-footed, with a book tucked underneath his arm. He reminded Castiel a lot of himself when he was that age, and he smiled at the boy. 

"Sammy!" the man scolded, but by the wide smile on his face, he wasn’t annoyed. “What did I tell you about eavesdropping?”

“Not to do it,” Sammy rolled his eyes. “But Dean, come on. He’s the only person besides that creepy guy—“

“Lord Alastair.”

“Yeah. Him. _Lord Alastair_ was…um, odd, and the other ones were…” the boy paused, obviously trying to come up with a more diplomatic word. “Old,” he finally said. “Dry. And the way they looked at—“ He cut himself off when his brother threw him a quick look. “Well, you know. And I like him.” He tugged at his brother’s arm. “Come on, Dean. He seems nice, I can tell.”

"All right.” The man turned to Castiel. “Sammy likes you. You're hired." 

Castiel couldn't breathe. This was so _sudden_. "I am?"

"Yes, you are. Let's put some more food into you, then I can escort you back home to bring your sister here."

"Thank you," Castiel managed to gasp out. "Thank you." 

"No problem. But first," he turned to Castiel with a soft smile. "Call me Dean."  


	2. Chapter 2

 "You can come in, you know," Castiel said.

Dean peeked his head around the doorframe. "How did you know I was there?"

"You breathe very heavily." Castiel finished stacking the rest of the books. He could hear his sister and Sam laughing from outside. It had been a while since Anna so much as smiled, and the thought saddened him. Yet Sam was not only a good pupil—he was a good friend, too. Both Sam and Anna were far too serious for their ages, but being around each other seemed to bring out their childish sides. They played pranks on each other, stole food from each other's plates, and freely teased their older brothers. Castiel still blushed at what the two often insinuated, right in front of Dean.

Now, Dean laughed, shyly striding into the room. "Sorry if I disturbed you guys."

"Not at all. Perhaps if you're interested, you can sit down with all of us? I'd like to hear your thoughts on what we went over today."

"Othello? I doubt that he truly loves Desdemona…” Dean said. “It’s just…he _says_ he loves her, but at the slightest hint—from the _villain_ , nevertheless—of her supposed unfaithfulness, Othello goes after his one true love and strangles her?”

“Well, we as the audience know that Iago is up to no good. But _Othello_ has no indication of Iago’s misdeeds or thought-process. It’s an example of dramatic irony,” Castiel explained, repeating what he had previously told Anna and Sam. “And he doesn’t _immediately_ take action against her, but he doubts. Heavily. It’s not until Iago goads Cassio further that--“

“But before that, he _hits_ her,” Dean protested. “He _hits_ her. And she then just…waits for her fate. It’s just sad, Cas. It’s not like Romeo and Juliet, where they meet after a few hours, then suddenly fall in love. These two are _married_. They’ve known each other for quite some time, and it’s just—a tragedy. All because some insecure sap didn’t get the job he wanted.”

Castiel smiled at Dean’s passionate tirade. "Did you go to a university?"

The other man shook his head, cheeks pink from his outburst. "Nah, Sammy's the smart one. I never finished school anyway; know just enough to get by."

"I hear you listening in on almost all of our lessons. I'm sure you're smarter than you think."

With a short roll of his eyes, Dean laughed. "I can parrot texts just fine, but all the fancy equations and astronomy and sonnets? Not my skill set.”

"You just argued with me about Shakespeare." Castiel pointed out.

Dean shuffled his feet, and Castiel noticed that his freckles stood out more when he blushed. "Well, it seemed obvious, that's all. At least, from what I heard. Besides, I like arguing, I guess—getting an excuse of learning to do what I do best.”

Castriel felt a fond smile quirk on his lips. "I can tutor you, too."

"But I can't go to a university."

"Who says you can't?"

"I have a job, and besides, the money put away is for Sam. And it's not my...dream, I guess."

"What is your dream?"

"Mmm. I don't know.” Dean strolled over to the window, next to Castiel, watching their siblings play tag. “Just live somewhere nice, maybe invent something interesting, provide for Sammy so he can be the greatest law official in the world. You?"

Outside, Anna whooped, tackling Sam to the ground. Both of them went down right on the ground, sliding a good few feet, but they only grinned, dusted themselves off, and raced off again in another direction.

"My sister has this plan. I'd write stories and sell them, and we'd travel the world." "Sounds like fun.” "Yes, I think it would be nice to get out of this place.” If Castiel turned, he would have seen the slight hurt in Dean’s face. “Not that I don't want to be here, with you and Sam; it's just...too many memories. Of my father, Zachariah..."

The young lord’s voice was quiet. "I understand. I’d like to leave here, too, but…” he shrugged helplessly. “I can’t.”

Castiel was curious. “Why?”

The other man didn’t look at him for a long while, staring into space with struggles behind his eyes. Castiel waited patiently, wanting to reach out and touch Dean’s shoulder, his arm, but didn’t dare. Even if they sat at the same table and were able to get into spirited arguments, Castiel still reminded himself of his _place:_ Sam’s tutor, a noble’s servant.

It was due to Dean’s generosity that Castiel was hired, that Anna was allowed to take advantage of his hospitality, and that they were provided with food and shelter when Castiel knew that Dean often worked down at the local stables and occasionally at the tavern in order to keep up their lifestyle. Castiel took it upon himself to help the Winchesters do the chores needed in the household, encouraging Anna to do the same. He’d seen Dean stumble through the door late at night, swaying on his feet, and Castiel made sure that the young lord had warm tea and a hot meal before collapsing into the prepared bed.

"When my mother died," Dean finally said, startling Castiel. "Dad went mad with grief. For a long while, he didn't know how to cope. She'd been the love of his life, you know...the only one for him. So when Michael's army rode through town, getting soldiers to volunteer to fight against the Demons, I should have guessed. He left me here, and made me promise to care for my brother until he came home." Shadows began to fall on his face, the sky outside darkening. Castiel could hear Sam and Anna murmuring, and prayed that they’d stay outside for just a little longer. He’d hardly heard Dean speak of his past before.

"…And Lord Alastair—he's been trying to buy this house from me, been offering to take this place out of my hands...whatever that means. The amount he's offering can send Sam to university and get his doctorate, and more—travel, even—but I can't. This is our home, and where would we go?" Dean sighed. "This is all we have."

The house was smaller than Castiel thought it had been on his first day, and he could see the painstaking repairs, from the leaky roof to the splintered front porch. There were still elements of finery strewn around—the portraits in the front parlor, the silver in a kitchen drawer, their clothes made from dyed cloth—but Dean often would pace back and forth before selling something: a throw rug or some curtains. He never pawned off certain items—even things they couldn’t possibly need, such as earrings or a green gown—and Castiel didn’t ask.

“Besides, the way he looks at me..." Dean shuddered, turning away from the window. He crossed his arms over his chest, and Castiel noted the way he ducked his head.

"How does he look at you?" Castiel asked softly.

"You know. Like he… _wants_ me."

Castiel felt a wave of nausea in his gut. How could he have thought his feelings would be returned? It was obvious what Lord Alastair wanted of Dean. Perhaps it was because of the man’s despicable nature, but…what if?

What if Dean found out Castiel’s affection for him?


End file.
